Cherish the child
by Taokan
Summary: The trials and tribulations of Sango's parents and Miroku's father Miatsu, and how they met. Eventually will focus more and more on Sango and Kohaku as they age, and, to a lesser extant, Miroku.
1. Chapter 1

Tamaji, expert demon slayer from Birejji no Taijiya, the village of the demon slayers, was less than expertly slaying kudzu. The majority of the village slayers had departed to exterminate a swarm of rat youkai in a village over the next mountain. Without him. And, as a delightful bonus, he had developed blisters in portions of his anatomy he hadn't been previously aware could get them.

Altogether he had to admit that the whole debacle could have worse.

Tamaji was fifteen, a true slayer from a long line of his ilk, having long ago proven his worth as a warrior and demon slayer. His skill with the katana and various poisons was respected even by the more seasoned Taijiya, his instincts for battle improving daily. He hadn't proved anything in regards to his emotions, however. At least, not anything good.

Lately Tamaji had gotten into fights with the other village boys, using the slightest excuse to start a confrontation. It wasn't that he disliked his fellow slayers; he loved his village and its inhabitants. He wasn't angry, either, at himself or those he fought with.

If he had to pin it down, he'd have to say it was his father. His father was fine leader for the demon-slayers, both in peace and in battle. He was equally skilled at calculating the amount of seed in the town's grainstores as finding and exploiting a demon's weakness. At times he was a bit distant, but that was condonable. No, Tamaji had no complaints about his father's leadership. His complaints were in regards to his father's parental skills.

Tamaji's father had never been very skilled at differentiating between his son and one of the many warriors he commanded. When the two returned to their hut in the evening, Tamaji practiced his katas, and his father read papers. Not a fond word or a gesture passed between them. Ever.

No matter how wonderful he was at anything he attempted, he would never be congratulated. He had never been embarassed by his father like his friends, simply because his father never noticed him enough at home to spin a tale from. It was almost like they were two complete strangers who happened to share living space and facial features.

He wasn't sure when this had begun, but it had been this way for as far back as memory stretched. Tamaji never had any complaints about his situation, exactly, for his father did nothing to complain to others about. Nothing at all.

But he would not disgrace himself by attempting to explain such a complicated emotion to his father or the elders, so he simply stood in silence when questioned about his latest fight. Truth to tell, even he'd been embarssed by the affair: he had spewed obscenities at a visiting monk by the name of Miatsu in the middle of the monk's meditation. The man had taken it rather well, had simply laughed at him and told him to find some better oaths.

The council of elders had viewed the incident much more harshly than Miatsu had. So much so, in fact, that they had no idea what to do with him. Thus, while his father and the elders were deciding the specifics of his punishment, he had been sent out to the village borders to dig up invading kudzu. By hand. He was not to return until he had "rid himself of childish sensibilities". Tamaji was of the opinion that it was the most degrading chore they could think of on short term notice.

It would rain soon, he could smell it. Probably within a few minutes, and quite heavily judging by the ominous cast of the clouds overhead.

He wouldn't be able to weed very well in a storm. He would, however, if he was fast, be able to track a lone wolf he'd seen a few times throughout the forest. _The elder's won't even notice I'm gone if I return before it rains._

If he was right, judging by the size of the tracks, the wolf he was after was a beta female. If he could find the lair, he could do a rough headcount.

He wasn't worried about the wolf pack's predation- he was more concerned about what might come after the wolves. Wolf demons had laired in this mountain in the past, and they might have wolves scouting out the village for them. That wouldn't be a good thing: when wolf demon numbers rose in the area, human populations tended to go down.

_It's not like I'll get a harsher punishment for this. _Fully convinced by the power of his own argumant, Tamaji set off for the lake, where he'd last seen the wolf.

Several minutes later, like the skirl of battledrums, thunder cracked overhead. Simultaneously a deluge of water dropped from above, soaking him to the skin within moments. _Shimatta. I'll have to go back._

The precussion of the rain made enough conversation during the walk to keep him company. More than enough, in fact.

In mid-step Tamaji froze, all thoughts of wolves and elders vanished. A familiar musk, slightly dulled by the rain, was on this tree. A demon bear. And blood. The youkai could be a mother with cubs or, even worse, a mated pair. If he didn't scout it out he'd never know, the village might be caught unawares. Already the scent was being washed away. This was the only opportunity to find out.

Luckily every slayer was required to carry a weapon with them whenever leaving the village, in case of emergency. He himself favored the katana, and had taken it with him. _That's one thing to thank father for._

Moving in a crab-like crouch to examine tracks, Tamaji slowly advanced, sacrificing speed for accuracy. He couldn't afford to make a mistake with this. As he moved further from the village, the demon's scent grew stronger, enough so that even his human nose could easily detect it. The bear was close by.

The smell seemed to be coming from the clearing up ahead. Moving at a fraction of his normal speed, Tamagi peeked into the clearing. The demon wasn't there, though the stench of blood was. The demon had attacked something, if not fed here, then left.

The clearing itself was decimated. Trees and foliage had been upturned and shredded and dirt had been churned by enormous feet to a thick, blood-soaked mud. Lying in a heap among the sea of swirling red mud, obviously the demon's prey, in a stained and tattered yukata, curled around a small cloth bundle. The woman was more covered with blood than rainwater, and more covered by that than the sad remnants of her yukata. Great tears had been raked through her kimono and the flesh beneath it, almost vivisecting her in several places. A scrap of blue cotten, undoubtedly torn from her yukata, had gotten caught in one of the tears through her arm and was quickly turning the deep shade of purple peculiar to sunsets.

Without hesitation the demon slayer darted out from cover and ran to the woman, kneeling at her side. The woman's bright yukata had made her look older than she truly was- she couldn't have been more than a few months his elder.

Careful of her wounds, Kamaji grasped the girl by the shoulders and gave her a brisk shake. "Can you hear me? Wake up!" She might as well have been a lifelike statue for all her movement. She was still alive, though; her chest visibly rose and fell.

_She needs help_. Carefully the slayer snaked his arms beneath her legs and about her shoulders. If he caused the girl pain, she made no sound. Moving slowly and carefully Tamanji rose to his heels and thence to his feet. Almost immidiately a sticky warmth seeped into his clothes, but he didn't care.

Moving cautiously at first, in case he caused his burden harm, the slayer set off down the path. Before he'd gone more a few feet, the smooth rhythm of his steps faltered as a hoarse muttering drifted to his ears over the pounding of water. He'd thought the woman was dead to the world. _Is she in pain? _

Concerned, he glanced downward. Feverish brown eyes locked on his as a steady murmer, almost a chant, poured from bloodied lips like a mantra. "-stop, stop, stop..."

Obediantally Tamaji halted. "What is it? Do your wounds pain you?"

A slender hand twitched backwards. A pivot on his heels brought her goal into his eyesight: the soggy bundle of cloth.

"You want it?" The woman's head jerked in a slight, but emphatic, nod. She wanted it.

The last thing he wanted to do now was agitate the poor woman. For all he knew, the stress would do what her wounds had not, and finish her off.

Resignedly Tamaji slogged back to the bundle. Without a thought, Tamanji nudged it with a foot to see if it seemed heavy. If it was, he'd have to leave it behind. What he was expecting was a pile of spare kimono, perhaps rations. He did not expect the bundle to nudge back.

Shifting the girl slightly, Tamaji kneeled in the mud and gingerly a corner of the cloth with two fingers, peeling it back with a sharp tug. A tiny fist, curled in the cloth, rose with it. "Wha-?"

Curious now, he lifted away the remaining cloth. A tiny double of the injured girl lay in the shredded blanket, dampened with pink rainwater and mud. _A baby. It's a baby. _The sudden exposure to the elements must have woken the child, as big brown eyes flew open with an almost audible snap. Wriggling and kicking, the baby gave a mewling whimper.

"Sango." Startled, Tamaji's eyes darted to the girl's face. The girl's lips, which had acquired the same tinge as her kimono, had moved.

"What?"

"Her name..." Dark lashes fluttered like a dancing butterfly.

_Oh. The baby._

"Take care... my child..."

"Hey! Stay awake, damnit!"

P)P)PP

This is more of an experiment that anything else. I've noticed that Sango's mother was never mentioned, and decided to remedy that. For obvious reasons this is also about Sango's father. Sango and Kohaku will grow up throughout this fic as time goes by in it. If you like this (for whatever reason) drop me a review and tell me so, and I'll punch out another.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his best efforts, the woman hovered in a half-awake state, and had begun to shudder, muttering brokenly. She was going into shock, he knew that much, but he didn't know how to treat it. He was a slayer: he was trained to cause wounds, not heal them.

Not knowing what else to do, Tamaji steeled himself and began to run. The trip back to the village passed in a fear tinged haze, and seemed to last for an eternity, though it probably lasted no more than a few minutes. He only became aware that he was nearing it when his feet no longer encountered a blanket of fallen leaves, but a dirt path.

At last the village of the slayers came into sight around a bend in the path. Birejji no Taijiya was a small village, containing no more than a dozen bamboo huts, and ringed by a study palisade that helped fend off small, less determined demons. Sheltered in the heart of a secluded mountain range instead of on a trade route, Birejji no Taijiya had long ago traded protection from roving human bandits for the threat of marauding demons. So far there were enough slayers in the village to discourage all but the strongest youkai.

As soon as the trio emerged through the town gate, Tamaji was pounced upon by a handful of village women, scoldings and shrieks sending his ears to ringing. Unfortunately, this group was fairly useless. In a pinch they were wonderful at clearing away demon armies, but toss a casualty of war at them, and their intelligence crumbled away in panic.

When he shouted at them, "You flock of harpies! Go get the healer!" They continued babbling at him, at each other, to do something, what should they do, should someone get help? Then, one by one, the voices fell silent as the women on the outer edges of the swarm of womenfolk noticed an authority figure. His father's voice, booming as it did through the silence, sounded like a death knell. "What is the meaning of this ruckus?"

Wordlessly the woman backed away, giving his father an unobstructed view of Tamaji. For the space of a breath, his father was frozen, eyes widening slightly. Then, graying brows drawing down like a thundercloud, the whirled on the cowed women, roaring out, "What is the meaning of this! Get them to the healer!"

Four of the women darted off, but the other two seized his shoulders and propelled him, almost bodily, into the healer's hut. As the flap, made to block sound rather than bad weather closed behind them, the last he heard of his father's voice before it got cut off by the muffling cloth was a bark for water.

Far from freezing, at the emergency, the healer sprang into action. With the clarity of a professional, the healer rattled off a list of items for the two women to procure, and, after the pair scurried off, ordered Tamaji to place the girl on the futon. As soon as he laid the injured girl down, bandages were shoved into his arms, along with terse orders to wrap the wounds on the girl's abdomen.

After a moment of embarrassment when the remains of her yukata were removed, exposing her chest, Tamaji closely followed the healer's gruff instructions: "Cleanse the wound with cold herbal water."

"Wrap the bandages tightly, but not enough to cut off circulation."

"Give her some tea, but not much."

Amid the confusion, the healer gave Sango a cursory examination, which only revealed she suffered from mild dehydration, and dismissed the child to the nearest available wet-nurse, as her mother would be too injured to manage it herself for some time.

After more than two hellish hours, Tamaji was evicted from the hut, with an order to, "Check on the baby. Make sure she's getting enough fluids."

Obediently taking his leave, Tamaji shuffled out of the hut and down the well-trod path to the wet-nurse. A sudden voice to the side startled him into cracking his neck when he sharply turned his head. "Perhaps you should rest. You look as if you have just departed a battlefield." It was the monk, Miatsu. Even as he spoke, the man's eyes did not waver from their stare at the hut containing Sango.

The man was probably correct. When working, he'd barely noticed the blood caking his clothes and arms, but was fully aware of it now. Regardless, Tamaji reflexively opened his mouth to spew out an obscenity, but the monk's arched eyebrow and amused quirk of the mouth cut him off before he could squeak out a syllable. "My, you're an argumentative one." The monk's staff clinked as the man gestured to the ground beside him. "I meant no offense, simply that you should rest yourself before your body does so for you. Sit."

The demon slayer briefly considered arguing, but conceded defeat. The monk was correct: his legs did feel like boulders had been tied to them. Heaving a sigh, Tamaji plopped to the ground in the spot indicated, giving off another sigh, one of pleasure, when his feet no longer had to bear his weight.

Miatsu said no more, and Tamaji was grateful for it. After a time Tamaji took the opportunity to examine his companion. Earlier, when he'd hurled curses at the man, he'd hardly noticed his appearance. The monk was a comely enough man, he supposed. He had the even features women found attractive and curious eyes- one was gray, the other green. The man was usually garbed in unassuming brown robes, and carried a ringed staff wherever he went. Curiously enough, his right hand was covered up to wrist in a heavy glove, sealed at the end with a rope of prayer beads.

When the man spoke, Tamaji jumped slightly. Neither had spoken for at least two hours, and Tamaji had almost fallen asleep. "I have a child of my own, you know. A son."

Tamaji cocked his head slightly in confusion, blinking drowsily. "What?"

"His name is Miroku," Miatsu continued calmly, "and should be a little over two years old by now."

"Why aren't you with him? Shouldn't you be there instead of loafing around here harassing our women?"

Miatsu's strange eyes glanced at him, then returned to their inspection of the hut. Instead of answering, he responded with a question. "Have you ever… tried to protect someone, knowing all the while you would fail?"

"Yes. When Kaa-san left." His own words startled Tamaji. He hadn't thought of his mother in years, since the day she had simply walked out of the village in the middle of the night, without a word to her husband or small son. At the time, it had been completely unexpected to him; his mother had seemed perfectly content before she left.

Then whispers began to circulate around the village of mother's mind not being what it used to be. That she'd insisted voices that weren't hers ordered her to do things, say things, she wouldn't normally do.

Oblivious to Tamaji's musings, Miatsu continued, "Than you understand. I would not return without success and shame my son."

"Shame him?"

"Yes." Without another word Miatsu hauled himself to his feet with aid of his staff, bowed to Tamaji, and strode off in the direction of the small Buddhist shrine.

Tamaji remained sitting for some time. Then he got up and entered the wet-nurse's hut. "How is the child?" He asked, looking up tiredly.

The screen falling shut unnoticed behind him. This was the third bare breast he'd seen today. Perhaps it was a sign from Buddha.

Kasumi, the wet-nurse, had shrugged off part of her yukata and was nursing Sango. At the choked hiss emanating from the door, Kasumi glanced up and spotted Tamaji.

"Oh, hello, Tamaji. She's fine, but they have passed quite a while in the woods before you found them, Sango's been very hungry. She's a very happy little thing, though. Hasn't cried at all."

Cooing down at Sango, Kasumi absently gave Sango a finger to hold. "Poor child," she added. "I wonder what happened, that the mother, unfortunate child, was convinced that traveling in a youkai infested mountain with a newborn was preferable to remaining where they had been."

Very carefully Tamaji kept his eyes aimed at the wet-nurse's face when he replied. He'd been aware, obviously of what feeding newborns entailed, but he'd never actually been a witness to it. He suspected it was revenge of a sort for women, simply dropping their kimono at a drop of a hat in public, watching the face of every male in the vicinity. Ingrates probably got a big, private laugh every time they did so. "There must be some reason. We'll have to ask her when she recovers."

That brought up another concern in his mind. What if the mother never got better? What if she died, and the village raised Sango? Was it truly kind to raise a child, one who would, under normal circumstances, never know of the slayers?

Shifting Sango to her shoulder in a smooth, practiced gesture, the wet-nurse patted her back gently. After a short time the woman was rewarded with a faint belch. Shrugging her yukata back in place, Kasumi placed Sango, who was already fast asleep, in a small cradle at the foot of the bed.

A soft mew at his feet drew Tamaji's attention downward, to a tiny, two-tailed cat demon. "Hello, Kirara," he said quietly, so as not to wake Sango. "Did you come to meet the baby?" Kirara mewed in affirmation.

Kirara's presence in the village was strange, the taijiya villagers freely admitted. In a sensible world, the village would have slain the cat youkai on sight or died in the attempt. Fortunately, the world seemed to overlook their nonsense.

It was hard to say when the youkai had first arrived, as even the most ancient of the clan elders insisted that the nekomata had been present at every birth in the village for at least two generations by that time. Town folklore insisted that Kirara had performed a service for a prominent demon slayer of the past, and in gratitude the slayer permitted the demon free reign of the village. The veracity of the legend was up for debate.

At times, if there was a visitor to the village, there was some confusion over the presence of a demon in the midst of a small army of demon slayers. Claims of insanity were tossed about like blows. And every time Kioutsu, the village headman and Tamaji's father, calmly silenced the arguments by stating that, "Kirara has slain more demons in the name of Birejji no Taijiya than most of our slayers will see in their lifetime. I trust her implicitly, which is more than I can say for most humans."

Tamping down her paws, Kirara leaped, landing effortlessly at the edge of the cradle. Stepping with all the caution and grace her feline form permitted, Kirara picked her way across the bedding to the infant, whereupon she kneaded the blanket with her paws for a moment before curling in a loose circle about the child.

Tamaji averted his eyes from the sight. The image of demon and child only strengthened his misgivings. Abruptly he voiced these to Kasumi. "… Is this the right thing to do? Do we have the right to expose a child to our way of life? The path of a slayer is paved with thorns. Before she sees her seventh summer she will know pain."

A low, growling purr rumbled in the nekomata's chest when chubby fingers instinctively gripped a patch of tawny fur along the demon's stomach. Bending her head, Kirara gently scraped the child's nose with her tongue.

The wet nurse smiled at Tamaji. "Kirara seems to think so."


	3. Chapter 3

Tamaji had not gotten off lightly for his little adventure, despite having come back with Sango and her mother, though, once again, it could have gone far worse. Public humiliation in the center of town came to mind, as well as castration. But his father would never allow that, of course; his son needed to create heirs to his proverbial throne, after all.

Tamaji still held the opinion that his father and the elders hadn't settled on a proper punishment for him, though he suspected they were getting close: he sometimes overheard them talking, saying such things as "latrine duty in the field", "burying carcasses", or, his personal favorite, "practice calligraphy". Writing had never been his strong point- it was not unusual to go months without touching ink to parchment in the village, and he considered it unfair that all the other villagers were only encouraged to practice, while he was forced to do so.

In the meantime, while a truly horrendous punishment was being concocted, Tamaji was ordered to help the healer with his increased workload. Not only did the man toil over Sango's mother for days on end, scarlet fever had begun to plague the village, and the healer constantly hurried between the sick tent and the quarantine area. Tamaji wasn't trusted with the scarlet fever victims, of course, but he tended to the injured girl when the healer needed to rest or things were uneventful. He was not fetched for the duty often, as she was still in delicate health and required an experienced eye, but when he was he called down he simply changed her bandages or gave her water and fed her. The help was needed, too.

It had been a little more a month, but there was little change in her condition. Almost overnight the girl's wounds had become infected despite the healer's best efforts; this, combined with the shock from the wounds, gave her a high fever and tended to make the young woman hallucinate and spout nonsense. The healer suspected internal bleeding, as well, from the blood that constantly added a red tinge to her white teeth. The visible wounds had mostly closed, but those that were left were inflamed an angry red. The healer kept them open, saying that they "needed to drain", pouring unguents into them almost constantly.

For the first week or so after their discovery, Tamaji's father had dropped by every few days for an update on her progress, though Tamaji didn't really know why. It wasn't like the old man really cared. One night he'd overheard the healer tell his father something about "demonic toxins", and "blood thinner". His father didn't come anymore.

His hours with the healer had been steadily decreased, he'd noticed, being gradually replaced with various onerous tasks. It seemed the elders had come up with something suitable after all. After another week or so, he wouldn't be spending time watching over the woman at all. He wasn't very sure how he felt about that.

During his watch in the healer's tent on the thirty-second night since finding the woman and her child, he happened to notice that the cool cloth on her forehead had dried up. Moving carefully so as not to wake her, he removed the cloth and dunked it in a small wooden pail at his feet that was filled with chilled water. Grasping both ends, he twisted, draining out excess water. Assured that the cloth was thoroughly dried, he turned about with cloth in hand to find the young woman (who had slept like one dead for more than fifteen hours) awake, glazed brown eyes staring (roughly) in his direction.

"I met a young woman in the forest yesterday," she said, slurring every word. "Very pretty, but very strange." He noticed that her head was tilted, so that the whole time she was speaking, her remarks were directed to an empty spot on the wall a few feet to his left. Not, of course, that he would call attention to this.

Tamaji had no idea what the woman was speaking of or even whether she was referring to the correct day, but had no inclination to stop her chatter. The ill were allowed to babble in his mind- taking advantage of one of the few times you could do so before senility set in. "Strange, how so?"

The young woman continued prattling like she hadn't heard a word. "She asked me where the slayer's village was- very intent on finding it, she was. I had no idea where it was, and I'd just given birth to my daughter in a hollow log- I couldn't move if I wanted to. I told her so." Resting her hands on the futon, she struggled to push herself upwards.

Tamaji noticed, in a kind of morbid fascination, that the skin covering those frail hands seemed translucent, as if he could see every drop of blood that rushed through her veins… Shaking his head slightly, Tamaji seized her shoulders in a light grip and gently pushed her back onto the futon. Picking up the abandoned cloth with his other hand, Tamaji dabbed at the sweat beading the girl's forehead. "What happened then?"

For a moment feverish chocolate eyes stared at him, startled at the sound of his voice. Then she smiled, red-flecked lips quivering. "She turned into a bear and drank my blood."

"Did she." It would later astound him that his voice was as steady as it sounded.

"Yes," she said faintly, shifting slightly under the think blanket. "Didn't touch Sango, though. She must've not taken a liking to my taste."

A rustle of cloth at his back drew his atttention. The old healer was kneeling next to him on the floor, carefully setting out bowls of dried herbs. A gnarled hand waved at him, shooing him away from the woman.

Obligingly scooting over, Tamaji watched in silent fascination as the old man changed bandages, sniffed the wounds, and did mysterious things with herbs. The healer said nothing during the course of his initial examination, then, as he finished up, with a glance in Tamaji's direction, he loudly snorted and spit off to the side. When it became apparent that Tamaji wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon, the old man squinted in his direction. "Get out of here, boy," he barked gruffly. "I need quiet to work."

"But what about-"

"Go bother Kasumi." Knowing better than to argue with the man while he was examining a patient, Tamaji agreed, and headed off for Kasumi's hut.

As he entered, soft snores from the futon on the other side of the fire told him of the wet-nurse's whereabouts. Kasumi fully welcomed visitors into her hut at all times, following the theory that when the baby would wake up in the night, she might as well have willing company when Kasumi herself was too tired. If Sango was sleeping, however… A soft cry in the cradle to the side, packed high with blankets, drew his gaze as Kasumi rolled over on her other side, murmuring sleepily. Striding quickly across the room, the youkai slayer peered into the cradle.

Kirara was, as usual, curled about the baby, making soft little mews with every exhalation, which he assumed were the cat demon's version of a snore. Surrounded by the tawny fur, curious brown eyes blinked solemnly up at him. "Hello, little one," he whispered, lifting Sango carefully from the cradle and settling her in the crook of his elbow, pacing the room in a swaying motion like Kasumi had shown him. Talking softly to the child, he absently checked to see if her changing cloth was wet. "Did you pine for me?" Silencing quickly at the rocking motion, Sango stared mutely up at him.

"You did? I have to tell you, though, that our love can never be. I am but a simple warrior. It would never work." A small pink tongue flashed as Sango yawned, large brown eyes blinking slowly. "Yes," he whispered dramatically in the face of an unasked question, "Our true love was doomed from the start." Reaching out a pudgy hand, Sango grasped a strand of the exposed dark hair, gripping it tightly.

Gently replacing the hair with one of his fingers, the slayer gasped quietly in feigned distress. "An attack on my person! A fiendish assassination attempt, my lady!" Sango didn't hear him, though, as she'd fallen back asleep. Shifting Sango in his arms, Tamaji lay her back in the nest of youkai and soft cloth. As the infant shifted, a single gold eye flicked open as Kirara mewed tiredly. "Sango was just talkative," he assured the youkai. Apparently taking him at his word, Kirara rolled about on her back, stretching out her tails. With a farewell pat for Kirara, Tamaji left Kasumi's hut, heading up the dirt path for the hut he and his father shared.

An unexpected voice by the healer's hut stopped him. It was the healer, obviously. No one else loitered about here if they could help it. Besides, that familiar gravelly tone, one that had coldly reprimanded him for playing around in the rain on many occasions, but most notably shortly after his return, was unmistakable. "Hello, elder," he said politely.

"Don't come visiting that injured girl anymore." The old man said bluntly, face glowing in a lurid reddish light as the old man lit up a pipe.

Tamaji wrinkled his nose reflexively at the sour smell of burning opium. Why a healer would smoke it was beyond him. "What? Whyever not? She's getting better-"

The healer took a heavy drag and breathed out, smoke curling from his nose like mist. "No she's not. That girl is going to die, probably within the next few days if not this very night."

In his chest, Tamaji's heart gave a small despairing cry. That girl, who he'd barely met, would die, leaving an infant to be raised by strangers, an infant who would never know, much less speak, to the small woman who'd smiled at him in her pain and bore a child all alone in the woods. It was quite possible that his father, out of some mysterious paternal feelings, would allow another child, one he would never praise, never tell her how beautiful she'd been as a baby, to grow up all but abandoned- _No. I won't let that happen. _"How can you possibly know that! You're supposed to help people! If no one else does, you should have hope!"

Setting aside his pipe, the healer shoved his weathered face close to the young slayer's. "Yes," he growled slowly. "I do, but I do not hold onto hope when reality stares me in the face. That girl. Will. Die. I cannot do anything. Nothing that wouldn't draw out her existence in a pointless and painful sham," the old man sighed, leaning heavily against the wall. "Nothing."

"Why not!"

"Because," the old healer ground out, taking another deep puff from his pipe, "she's been poisoned. I'm not an expert on such things, but I know youkai poison when I see it. I don't have the skills necessary for this."

Stepping closer to old man, one he held in the deepest respect, Tamaji seized his yukata by the neck and drew him closer. "Then tell me who does."

Rheumy eyes scrutinized him. "None, save perhaps a priest or priestess, they train themselves for such things better than I. But as you may have noticed," he said dryly, "we have none. Our Buddhist shrine is for Miatsu's benefit."

"Why don't we go get one of them?" Tamaji asked desperately.

"It would take too long with a squad, which is only way you'd get through the mountains alive. She'd be long dead by the time you got back, and she'd never survive the journey."

He had a moment of indecision, a moment that seemed to last aeons. The rumors of bloodthirsty demons inhabiting this mountain had been spread with good cause. The woman he wanted to save was enough of an example of that. If he left, there was no guarantee he'd return anyway. Scores of slayers, many far more experienced and talented than himself had disappeared in these mountains over the years, but… His own voice broke the spell that had descended on him when, unbidden, it tumbled from his throat. Surprisingly, it was exactly what he wanted to do. "Then I'll go."

Spinning on his heel, he walked toward the town gates. The old healer's voice followed him, grown shrill in urgency. "Wait!" Tamaji didn't stop walking. "You don't even know what way to go, idiot boy. …Head west. If memory serves, there's a small shrine at the foot of the mountain. I can't guarantee anyone'll be there, but it's all I have."

Tamaji hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you. If I don't come back…"

"I'll make sure Sango grows up knowing of you and her mother," the old healer finshed.

The rest of the journey to the gate itself was unimpeded. The guard at the gate, a friend of his named Koartsu who'd been in training as a slayer with him, raised an eyebrow. "Ging somewhere, 'Maji?"

Grunting noncomfirmingly, Tamaji stalked past him, moving at a distance eating lope.

"Hey! Wait! I almost forgot to tell you. That monk, whatsiname, Miato, left a message for you. He left last night. He left a message for you and your father. No idea what your father's said, but I still have yours."

Tamaji grabbed it and stuffed it in his boot for later. "Thank you. I'm going out," he mumbled, giving Koartsu a pat on the shoulder as he passed.

"All right," the guard said doubtfully, casting his gaze up the street to the home of Tamaji and the chieftain. "What should I-"

"Tell Father I ran away again."

"…Whatever you say."

Under must circumstances, the suggestion to "head west" would probably not have been extraordinarily helpful. A lot of things lay in the west, after all, any number of which could lay between him and a shrine. In addition to that, a great deal of the old paths were no longer maintained, and simply ended after treking perhaps several hundred miles through the mountains. This particular path, however, was the main path traveling slayers used to leave the mountains, and he was reasonably sure that it would eventually lead to a shrine or temple.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he'd run, as after the first hour time blurred together as it always did when he ran a great distance, but it was long enough for the sun and moon to chase each other across the sky, ending with the moon before him.

In a similar way, he had no idea how far he'd run, judging only by how close he was to the bottom of the mountain, than how far past it. He estimated he'd run fifteen miles since reaching the base when he tripped, the force of training hammered into him since he would walk making him instantly slap the ground with his hands, rolling to the side to minimize the damage. Still, his face slammed into the dirt despite his efforts.

For a time he remained there, breath heaving into his lungs with gasping sobs. A strange tingling in his lip made him raise a finger to it curiously. It came away wet. Shrugging away the pain, the demon slayer forced himself to his knees, glancing in an absent sort of way at what had tripped him.

The beginning of a stone path that led off the main road, heading off into the shade of the pine forest. Unconsciously his gaze followed that road to it's end, a squat building with a triangular roof that was nestled between two fallen trees that looked to have been there since the dawn of time.

A shrine.

Stumbling in his haste, Tamaji bolted to his feet and up the set of steps that led inside. "Hey! Is anybody there? I need help!" The interior of the shrine was hardly imposing, filled with a thick layer on aging dust, a dented bronze cast of Buddha that looked to have seen significant battle damage, a few moldering sticks of incense, and what looked to be a whole town of rats. One thing it did not have, however, was a monk or priest. No one was here. There was no priest or priestess to bring back to the village, no one who could help.

Abruptly remembering Miatsu's, Tamaji hastily drew it from his boot, almost tearing it in his hurry. The message was written on a scrap of old silk, calligraphy penned neatly in large letters. After a moment of squinting, his eyes remembered how to decipher the smooth strokes of ink. _**Tamaji**,_ the letter read**_ I regret leaving without notice, having just made your official acquaintance, but I have just received word that the object of my quest is closeby, within a tenday's walk. If I am successful, I will come back to the village with news of my success. I suspect, however, that I will not be so fortunate. _**

That was it. Frantically Tamaji flipped it over, but there was no more to the message, only a dutiful and plain pattern of faded green ivy. _What had I expected, though? _He asked himself despairingly, slumping to the dusty floor. _A map to the nearest temple?_ Miatsu had left far before him, if Koartsu was to be believed, and had had no idea of Tamaji's plans. At the time, neither had Tamaji. He was a fool. Before he even started, he was in grave danger of failing.

If he didn't succeed, she would die. Without conscious thought, Tamaji began to laugh, harsh, hysterical sounds that tore at his throat. _I don't even know her name. _


End file.
